From Fall 2000
In a recent bout of tidying, Summer asked me to sort through the dozens of old floppy disks from my collection of stuff that I no longer need. Stretching back to my freshman year at college, these disks included old papers, teaching materials, and journals I had kept through my undergraduate and graduate years. Most of this was trash and ended up there, but I did find some interesting pieces. I plan on sharing some of them as a sort of "greatest hits" feature over time.
What follows is from a class I took my first year in the MA program. We were asked to write the kind of personal narrative we would read from our freshman students. This is the version I submitted for that class:
Our daughter was just a few weeks old when I first gave her a bath. The dark little knot that had remained from her umbilical cord had shriveled up and fallen off, so she was ready for a real bath, and since I could not do anything else for her, it was my job to bathe her. I was very excited; watching my wife do all the things I couldn’t do for her —feed, comfort, dress—was difficult to handle. So I set off to do the one parental thing I could.
She was so tiny and thin, and holding her made me feel so awkward. And then there was the fact that every time I picked her up she would let out this sad little cry, as if she were afraid she would never see her mother again. I set the plastic baby bath over the kitchen sink and began to run the water, checking it with the thermometer we had purchased for this purpose. I grabbed the baby care reference book (Allyson’s instructor’s manual, we called it) and found the page about bathing an infant. The water was to be between 40 and 45 degrees Celsius, and I waited patiently to get the perfect temperature before filling the basin. I set the baby wash, baby shampoo, washcloth, lotion, and baby oil next to the plastic tub in preparation for this most important event.
“Is this enough water?” I asked my wife. She looked carefully at the level, tested the temperature, and smiled approvingly. The bath had her blessing, so I was convinced that things would go just smoothly.
I picked the scrawny little girl up and gently took her pajamas off. Her arms and legs were so skinny, and every time I changed her diaper I feared that I would break her. I set her down and got ready for the transfer across the room to the bath. I looked at her pink little face, trying in vain to communicate to her that she would be okay, that she could trust me.
Carefully I picked her up and carried her to the tub. Until now we were told to only wash her hair under gentle running water and give her an occasional sponge bath, and she had always enjoyed this brief bath times. I had also read that bathing your baby was an excellent way for a father to be involved as a parent. As I held her over the bath I smiled at her and promised her how much fun bath time would be.
I then put her down in the perfectly still water, the water that was the precise temperature and depth, the water that my wife herself had approved and accepted. Gently I placed Allyson on the soft foam back of the tub and prepared to bond with my daughter. She responded to my careful preparations and loving gesture by emitting an earth-shattering scream and thrashing her thin little legs around desperately. Water splashed out of the tub and drenched me, the counter, and the floor. With every contortion of her body Allyson became more and more upset, realizing that she was not only wet and defenseless, but also unable to escape. Her shriek reached higher and higher pitches and her first real tears worked up in the corners of her eyes. She looked at me with horror, her worst suspicions—that this big man could not be trusted—confirmed.
Her face froze in a look of fear and dread; the color drained and her mouth gaped open in shock at what was going on. Tears welled up in her eyes, and I felt them gathering in mine as well. I tried to speak comforting paternal things to my frightened baby, but nothing escaped my lips except a faint apology. “I’m sorry,” I muttered again and again, hoping that somehow she would begin to understand and forgive me. Each repetition was made more and more ineffectual and muted by her screams, which by now had become deafening. And so we were there, both of us crying, Allyson wailing, with water being splashed all over the kitchen.
I grabbed the washcloth and began desperately to wash her face and neck, forgetting completely the baby wash. I even skipped over washing her arms and hurriedly scrubbed her legs, rushing to get to her hair and the end of this disastrous bath. Her crying had either subsided or desensitized me, because it seemed less ear-splitting. I now wet her hair—something she was more accustomed to at bath time—and washed her hair. Her tears seemed to have dried up, and she looked at me more knowingly, more reassured, more trusting. The fear that had gripped her was slipping from her face, and she almost smiled. She plainly was not happy with the whole turn of events, but her features had softened and she looked more compassionately at her stumbling father.
I washed her hair and let the warm water run down the sides of her face. By now she had stopped crying and was much calmer than before, although she was still visibly agitated. I picked her out of the water and handed her to my wife, who wrapped the towel around her and set off to dry and dress her. Allyson shivered as Summer dried her back and head. I turned and gathered up the dripping bath supplies, taking them to the bathroom and the hamper, and grabbing a towel to dry the counter and floor. I drained the bathtub and put it to dry, and then I walked over to where the two of them sat. The house was dark except for the one lamp in the corner of the living room that illuminated the ceiling and walls and cast a dim light over the rest of the room.
I stood a few feet away from them as Summer comforted our daughter and rocked her to sleep. Allyson heard me approach and turned her head to see me. Her eyes were heavy with sleep, but she seemed to recognize me and approve of my presence. I sat down and Summer handed her to me. Allyson lay there in my arms, her whole body swaying with each breath she took, looking up at me. Her delicate features showed no sing of the trauma of just moments before, and a smile crept over my face. My shirt was drenched and my eyes were red from crying, but I couldn’t help smile at the fact that this little person, who would so many times in the years to come be disappointed and upset with me, was willing to forget all that and just be my little girl. My smile grew, and I held Allyson closer to my face to kiss her tiny nose. As I looked at her this way, a tiny smile broke forth on her face as she looked at me, her innocent little face reflecting so much that I had to learn from her.
She was so tiny and thin, and holding her made me feel so awkward. And then there was the fact that every time I picked her up she would let out this sad little cry, as if she were afraid she would never see her mother again. I set the plastic baby bath over the kitchen sink and began to run the water, checking it with the thermometer we had purchased for this purpose. I grabbed the baby care reference book (Allyson’s instructor’s manual, we called it) and found the page about bathing an infant. The water was to be between 40 and 45 degrees Celsius, and I waited patiently to get the perfect temperature before filling the basin. I set the baby wash, baby shampoo, washcloth, lotion, and baby oil next to the plastic tub in preparation for this most important event.
“Is this enough water?” I asked my wife. She looked carefully at the level, tested the temperature, and smiled approvingly. The bath had her blessing, so I was convinced that things would go just smoothly.
I picked the scrawny little girl up and gently took her pajamas off. Her arms and legs were so skinny, and every time I changed her diaper I feared that I would break her. I set her down and got ready for the transfer across the room to the bath. I looked at her pink little face, trying in vain to communicate to her that she would be okay, that she could trust me.
Carefully I picked her up and carried her to the tub. Until now we were told to only wash her hair under gentle running water and give her an occasional sponge bath, and she had always enjoyed this brief bath times. I had also read that bathing your baby was an excellent way for a father to be involved as a parent. As I held her over the bath I smiled at her and promised her how much fun bath time would be.
I then put her down in the perfectly still water, the water that was the precise temperature and depth, the water that my wife herself had approved and accepted. Gently I placed Allyson on the soft foam back of the tub and prepared to bond with my daughter. She responded to my careful preparations and loving gesture by emitting an earth-shattering scream and thrashing her thin little legs around desperately. Water splashed out of the tub and drenched me, the counter, and the floor. With every contortion of her body Allyson became more and more upset, realizing that she was not only wet and defenseless, but also unable to escape. Her shriek reached higher and higher pitches and her first real tears worked up in the corners of her eyes. She looked at me with horror, her worst suspicions—that this big man could not be trusted—confirmed.
Her face froze in a look of fear and dread; the color drained and her mouth gaped open in shock at what was going on. Tears welled up in her eyes, and I felt them gathering in mine as well. I tried to speak comforting paternal things to my frightened baby, but nothing escaped my lips except a faint apology. “I’m sorry,” I muttered again and again, hoping that somehow she would begin to understand and forgive me. Each repetition was made more and more ineffectual and muted by her screams, which by now had become deafening. And so we were there, both of us crying, Allyson wailing, with water being splashed all over the kitchen.
I grabbed the washcloth and began desperately to wash her face and neck, forgetting completely the baby wash. I even skipped over washing her arms and hurriedly scrubbed her legs, rushing to get to her hair and the end of this disastrous bath. Her crying had either subsided or desensitized me, because it seemed less ear-splitting. I now wet her hair—something she was more accustomed to at bath time—and washed her hair. Her tears seemed to have dried up, and she looked at me more knowingly, more reassured, more trusting. The fear that had gripped her was slipping from her face, and she almost smiled. She plainly was not happy with the whole turn of events, but her features had softened and she looked more compassionately at her stumbling father.
I washed her hair and let the warm water run down the sides of her face. By now she had stopped crying and was much calmer than before, although she was still visibly agitated. I picked her out of the water and handed her to my wife, who wrapped the towel around her and set off to dry and dress her. Allyson shivered as Summer dried her back and head. I turned and gathered up the dripping bath supplies, taking them to the bathroom and the hamper, and grabbing a towel to dry the counter and floor. I drained the bathtub and put it to dry, and then I walked over to where the two of them sat. The house was dark except for the one lamp in the corner of the living room that illuminated the ceiling and walls and cast a dim light over the rest of the room.
I stood a few feet away from them as Summer comforted our daughter and rocked her to sleep. Allyson heard me approach and turned her head to see me. Her eyes were heavy with sleep, but she seemed to recognize me and approve of my presence. I sat down and Summer handed her to me. Allyson lay there in my arms, her whole body swaying with each breath she took, looking up at me. Her delicate features showed no sing of the trauma of just moments before, and a smile crept over my face. My shirt was drenched and my eyes were red from crying, but I couldn’t help smile at the fact that this little person, who would so many times in the years to come be disappointed and upset with me, was willing to forget all that and just be my little girl. My smile grew, and I held Allyson closer to my face to kiss her tiny nose. As I looked at her this way, a tiny smile broke forth on her face as she looked at me, her innocent little face reflecting so much that I had to learn from her.
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